


The Show Must Go On

by logicalspecs



Category: The Greatest Showman (2017)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fire, Historical Inaccuracy, Medical Inaccuracies, Minor Character Death, Sickfic, Sunsets, Trapeze, a lot of barnum angst, barlyle if you squint, i tried my dudes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-28
Updated: 2018-05-21
Packaged: 2019-03-10 18:43:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13507551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/logicalspecs/pseuds/logicalspecs
Summary: Five times P. T. Barnum hid his pain, and the one time he didn't have to.1. Fever and Flu2. Cut and Concussion3. Aches and Asphyxiation4. Emotions and Emptiness5. Punched and Pulled6. Sacrifice and Stab wounds





	1. Fever and Flu

Right arm goes in the right sleeve. Left arm goes in the left sleeve. Easy, really. 

Except when you're both hot and cold at the same time, and your brain is running at about the speed of a snail.

He straightened the jacket on his shoulders, the once enticing red now seeming cruel to his tired eyes. The soft fabric felt scratchy against his feverish skin, the extra layer doing nothing to suppress the shivers wracking his body.

Deep breaths, Barnum. You're fine. 

Phineas Taylor Barnum was many things, however, fine was not one of them. With each step he took, his body fought with all it had to keep him upright. It was truly a miracle that he wasn't face down on the floor at this point.

His chest felt like one of his elephants decided to lead a stampede across it; each breath sent a shock of pain through his lungs. His breathing was shallow and each inhale came far too quickly, the exhale coming just as fast. His throat was as rough as sandpaper, his voice sounding more like a rasp than his usual rich baritone. 

His head was a complete other story. Even thinking hurt. P. T. couldn't hear anything, at least not clearly. In his agonizing haze of pain and nausea, all sound had been falling on deaf ears. The pounding behind his eyes was growing more tormenting with each second, a pitiful whine escaping his clenched teeth. 

He swallowed the urge to promptly pass out and sent the mirror a charming smile. His jaw was tight and his eyes had lost their sparkle, leaving his show-stopping grin looking more like a grimace. He frowned.

Phineas sighed quietly. He wanted nothing more than to go home to Charity. Her captivating eyes and warm smile wafted into his thoughts. Her golden hair fell like a halo around her face. His daughter's laughter rang through his haze, the giggling drifting away again when a knock sounded on the door.

“P.T? You ready? The show's about to sta- Woah, what did you drink last night? You look half dead.”

His apprentice stepped around the curtain and into Phineas' dressing room. His eyes were narrowed, and in his nauseated haze, P. T. almost swore he saw a hint of concern in the man's baby blues.

“I didn't drink anything, Phillip.” He sighed. “I'm just a bit tired, that's all.”

Phillip raised a brow and smirked knowingly.

“You're sick, Barnum. Go home.” Phillip scoffed when P. T. rolled his eyes.

“Seriously, you look like you're about to keel over.”

But, if P. T. Barnum was anything, he was stubborn. He wouldn't let a pesky cold keep him down, not when he had a show to perform.

Thus, he raised his chin, squared his shoulders, and smoothed down his hair before striding out of his dressing room. Gripping his black and gold top hat, he sent Phillip a lewd smirk and ran to the ring. 

If, after the show, Phineas crumpled unconscious in his dressing room, only waking when Phillip called his name, well, no one had to know.


	2. Cut and Concussion

Phineas placed a kiss on his wife's cheek and her lips quirked into a gentle smile.

“Daddy, can you bring me home some peanuts?” Helen bounded down the stairs, her sister a few steps behind. Caroline held the ruffles of her skirt in one hand, much more careful than Helen.

Phineas bent down to receive an armful of blonde hair and purple dress. 

“I'll see what I can do, little elephant.” Phineas laughed, a rich sound that filled the front hall.

Standing up, Phineas placed Helen next to her mother, only to have Caroline wrap her arms around his waist. He ruffled her hair with a chuckle, glancing up at Charity, whose smile he wished he could save for forever.

“Hey! You're gonna mess up my hair! Mommy spent a long time doing it!” Caroline pressed her palms to her hair, trying to smooth out the tangles.

“I'm going to be late if you little munchkins keep distracting me,” Helen stuck her tongue out at him, Caroline giggling next to her.

“You keep that tongue where it belongs, young lady.” Phineas scolded, though his eyes twinkled with amusement.

“Good luck at rehearsal, Phin.” Charity cut Helen off before she had the chance to reply. “Say hello to Anne and Phillip for me. Oh, and tell Lettie I tried her hair salve, and it was marvelous.” Charity handed her husband his hat and coat with a smile.

A smile that Phineas gladly returned as he turned to the door, casting a wink at his girls as he left.

~

Phillip greeted Phineas at the door with a smile on his face and a bounce in his step.

“You're in a good mood this morning, Carlyle.” He placed his hat on a nearby hook, before spinning on his heel to face his apprentice.

“I could say the same about you,” Phillip led Phineas backstage to where Lettie, Anne and W. D. were chatting happily.

“Anne and W. D.'s new trapeze cords arrived. We were hoping that we could run the show to try them out.” Phillip gestured to a crate, its lid lying a few feet away.

Anne was smiling, one of the true smiles that warmed Phineas' heart.

“What can I say,” Phillip shrugged. “When she's happy, I'm happy.”

Phineas clapped Phillip on the shoulder.

“Well, what are we waiting for? We've got a show to run!”

~

Moving through the show was as routine as one's nightly ritual. Anne was even wearing her wig, saying it helped her 'connect with the act'.

At some point, Phillip had tossed Phineas his coat, which he gladly accepted. Despite only Phillip, Anne, W. D., Lettie and himself being at the circus, the rehearsal still carried the same energy and power.

Time seemed to stop when Anne's trapeze broke.

~

Lettie's scream and W.D.'s terrified 'Anne!' were the only sounds in the room as the pink-haired trapeze artist soared across the ring.

Phineas didn't even have time to scream before her body hit his, sending them both sprawling. Phin heard the sickening crunch of Anne's arm snapping before he hit the wall.

His back had hit first, before his head whipped back with the momentum of the crash. He could hear the crack as his skull met the wall, the sound ringing in his ears

His vision blacked out momentarily before all his senses came back with a scorching pain. He could hear people yelling, Phillip's voice the loudest.

He could see the younger man cradling Anne, her pink wig tossed to the side. Philip's eyes were glistening with unshed tears as he reached for the hand of her uninjured arm.

Phineas' head was pounding. All the colors in the room were starting to become unbearable. The bright pink wig, his vivid red coat, the deep red covering his leg-

Wait.

Damn.

The white-hot pain took approximately 3 seconds to hit him.

A large cut hid under ripped black pants, red spilling onto the floor.

He needed to get to his room. Now.

Before anyone saw him.

Thus, Phineas Taylor Barnum dragged himself across the floor of his circus, leaving a trail of red.

~

Phillip was frozen as Anne plummeted, his stomach sinking. The moment she made contact with P. T., he thought the ringmaster had caught her, and he released a breath. 

Then they didn't stop. 

Anne went straight to ground, her arm breaking under the pressure. The sound of her pained cry sent Phillip into action. He ran, adrenaline being the only thing keeping his knees from buckling with worry. He slid to the ground next to her, his hands moving to cradle her head.

“Someone get a doctor!” He yelled, his eyes never leaving Anne's. He stripped the wig from her hair with shaking hands, running his fingers through her brown curls.

“It's alright,” he wiped a stray tear from her cheek. “You'll be alright.”

Not soon enough, a doctor came to whisk Anne to a hospital, urging him to stay here and help deal with the aftermath. He refused to leave Anne's side, but Lettie placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, silently asking him to stay. 

“She's in good hands.”

Phillip conceded, turning away from the stretcher.

That's when he saw it.

Deep red blood was pooled near a wall. The corner of one of the stands dripped with more crimson, and Phillip's breath caught in his throat.

“Who's blood is that?”

His voice was scared as his eyes followed the trail, leading directly to-

“Barnum.” He had completely forgotten about Barnum. How could he forget about Barnum?

“Oh my god.” Lettie breathed. 

Phillip ran towards the ringmaster's dressing room, pushing the door open.

“Phineas!” He called out, his voice panicked.

The room was empty.

~

If P. T. showed up the next day with a limp, well, no one said anything.


	3. Aches and Asphyxiation

“Phillip.”

The name ghosted across his lips. His heart had plummeted when he heard of the fire, but to lose one of his family-

His feet were moving before he even had the time to process the decision. He heard Charity and his daughters calling after him, their voices alarmed and afraid, but he ignored them. 

He felt the flames scorching his cheeks before he realized he'd reached the building. The flames licked up the walls, red and orange light filling the smoky room.

Phineas pulled the collar of his coat up to cover his nose and mouth, the thick gray smoke burning his eyes.

“Phillip!” His voice was drowned out by the fire, but he kept calling nonetheless.

He inhaled subconsciously, his lungs filling with smoke. He fell to his knees, coughs wracking his body. The sound of cracking above him filled his stomach with lead. He didn't have time to think before a wooden beam struck him on the back.

His breathing sounded more like wheezes, and he was sure he cracked a rib, but there, by the wall, lay Phillip.

The younger man was unconscious, slumped against the wall and floor. His usually prim hair was matted and dirty, his face and clothes covered in soot.

Phineas coughed again, though it sounded more like a mix between a wheeze and a sob. He used every ounce of strength he had left to pull himself from under the beam, ignoring the sharp pains in his ribs.

The fire was sweltering hot, burning the bare skin of Phineas' face as he crawled towards Phillip. He didn't even realize he had started crying until a salty drop wet his lips, though the tears may have been because of the smoke stinging his eyes.

“Phillip.” He wheezed, grabbing the other man's hand. A loud crack broke through the roaring sound of the fire, the noise sending Phineas into action.

He placed an arm under his friends' shoulders, then the other under his knees, shifting Phillip as gently as he could. Then, Phineas stood up on shaking legs and ran, cradling the man in his arms like a mother would her child.

~

The utter relief he felt when he saw the crowd washed over him like a summer rain. Despite wanting to just drop and sleep for years, Phineas ran forward and placed Phillip down as carefully as he could. 

His hands were covered in black soot and they shook like earthquakes, but he pressed the pads of his fingers against Phillip's limp wrist. His heartbeat was pounding in his ears, his body running on pure adrenaline.

A soft thump pressed against Phineas' fingers and his lips quirked into a weary smile. He rested his head on his hand, the one still holding Phillip's, and sighed.

His moment of reprieve lasted merely a second before Phillip was lifted onto a stretcher and whisked away.

Anne and the rest of the circus followed soon after, leaving Charity, the girls and Phineas watching the building burn.

“Char, take Caroline and Helen home. They shouldn't have to see this.” Phineas' voice was quiet and rough.

“You should come with us, Phin.” Charity's eyes softened, her brows furrowed in worry.

“I can't- I can't leave.” Phineas was still knelt on the ground, the bright light reflecting on the tears in his eyes.

Charity watched him for a moment, before nodding.

“Come on, girls. Let's go.”

Phineas was alone.

~

It had been a few minutes after Charity had left that the adrenaline started to wear off. It started as a small ache in his ribs and back, then his breathing became more labored.

The small ache turned into a stabbing pain in his ribs and back every time he moved, and the labored breathing turned into coughing fits that left him on the ground and exhausted.

But, he was a showman. Pretending was in his nature.

So, he did what he did best.

He lied, he faked and he brushed off any concern.

Although, no one was concerned about him.

Phillip was unconscious in a hospital because of him. Phineas had abandoned them, not Phillip. 

Phineas never visited Phillip while he was recovering.

If Phillip asked Anne why P. T. had never come to see him, well, Anne didn't have an answer.

And, if Phineas had passed out due to asphyxiation and smoke inhalation, well, no one was there to see.


	4. Emotions and Emptiness

Phineas loved sunsets.

Not for some deep, metaphorical reason, really. They were just beautiful to him.

When he and Charity first bought their apartment together, evening was falling over the city like a blanket. The air was chilled and their home was barely insulated, but they couldn't care less. Their love for one another was all the warmth and comfort they needed.

Charity pulled the striped blanket from her bag, a wide grin on her face. The sunset reflected on the window, a mix of bright colors standing out against the dull brick surrounding it.

He glanced at his love, her eyes wide with awe as she watched the reflection on the window.

Phineas wished he could capture that moment forever.

 

It was an hour or so before dinner when Phineas and Charity rushed to the hospital. 

Caroline came into the world moments later.

As Phineas cradled his babe in his arms, his wife lying beside him, he gazed out the window. The world was filled with a warm glow as the sky swirled with color. The clouds were pink and fluffy, like the blanket his daughter was swaddled in.

Phineas smiled a small, genuine smile. He couldn't be happier.

 

When Caroline was 4 and Helen was 2, Phineas brought his family to the lakeside where he and Charity had often met as children.

Caroline, ever the cautious one, ran in the grass, looking for flowers and weird plants. Her sister was immediately drawn to the water, pulling on Phineas' hand and Charity's skirt, pleading for them to let her splash.

Phineas was the one who caved, stripping off his shoes, then his daughter's. Helen giggled as the cold water tickled her toes, bending over to touch it with her hands.

Small splashes behind him alerted Phineas of Caroline's arrival, though she shrieked as the water touched her sensitive feet.

“Daddy, it's cold!”

Phineas laughed, before picking her up and shifting her onto his back. He chased after Helen, the two-year-old having wandered away farther down the bank.

Charity got to her first, picking up the infant with ease. Helen giggled as her mother tickled her, her chubby arms and legs kicking.  
Caroline rested her head on her father's shoulder.

“Isn't the sunset so pretty, Daddy?”

Phineas sighed contently.

“Yes, it's very beautiful, honey.”

 

Helen had drawn him a sunset once, without knowing what they meant to him. The small paper that was covered with reds and purples and all sorts of colors. Helen's grin split her face when he asked her if she wanted to bring it to the circus so she could show it to rest of the troupe.

The drawing was hung in his dressing room in the circus, right next to the door so he could see it every time he left the room before a show.

The paper had burned along with the rest of the building.

 

Phineas' eyes were empty as he sat on the charred steps of the circus. The smell of smoke filled the air, staining his clothes with its stench.

His eyes flickered up as James Gordan Bennett approached, sitting next to him.

They exchanged words briefly before the other man handed him the newspaper.

His broken world shattered.

 

Charity was gone. His family left him. His life burned to the ground and he could only watch.

The sky was blazing with vibrant orange and blinding yellow. Purple and pink mingled among the fiery colors.

Phineas' heart was empty, and too full.

He wanted to sob, to scream.

He wanted it to all go away.

He wanted to watch his daughters grow up, wanted to see each of Caroline's ballet recitals. He wanted to see all the pictures Helen would create. He wanted to see Charity's sleepy smile on a bright Sunday morning.

But he couldn't. Not anymore. That chance had burned.

That chance had set like the sun over the horizon.

And Phineas cried.

He cried until he had no tears left to cry. Then, he clutched at his chest and sobbed even though his cheeks stayed dry.

Phineas wanted something more, and that was his downfall.

If Phineas lost his love for sunsets, well, no one knew he once loved them, anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much for all the love on this story! You have no idea how much it means to me!
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this chapter!


	5. Punched and Pulled

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Frances was not their firstborn, but for the sake of the story, let's pretend she was. Also, I am in no way a doctor, so I apologize for any inaccuracies, medical and historical.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

Frances Irena was almost two when she died, exactly twenty days till her second birthday. It was slow, agonizing and painful, and it left the young couple with holes in their hearts that could never be filled.

It had started with a fever and a light cough, as is often the case with pneumonia, but overnight the sickness had grabbed a hold of the child and would not let go. Frances would barely eat, and the little food that she did manage was immediately thrown up.

The doctor had offered advice and a prescription for cough syrup, before sending them away with a promise of prayer.

Frances Irena Barnum passed away that night in the arms of her father, swaddled in a ragged pink blanket.

~

P. T. tangled a finger in a loose thread, cutting off his circulation. The fabric was dirty and covered in dust; it reeked with the tangy smell of wet wood and old metal. It was barely pink anymore, the dye had seeped out over the years.

Phineas had been clearing out a small storage closet in their home when he had come across the wooden box. F. I. B. had been carved in curved letters on the top. The box was small enough to fit in the palm of his hand, and its lid sat crookedly in place. 

His heart had sunk to his stomach when he found it, the stench of grief masking that of old wood. He and Charity and silently vowed never to tell the story of their first child, their daughter who's light was snuffed far to soon. 

He didn't even know that they still had the box.

With a heavy heart and a weary soul, Phineas had lifted the lid to reveal the contents of the wooden box: a small piece of pink cloth. Its edges were tattered and frayed from being hastily cut with a knife, yet the square of fabric was unmistakably that of his daughter's blanket.

Charity was the one to suggest that they keep a piece to remember her, and they buried the rest with her body. 

When Caroline was born, Phineas cried with joy and fear. Fear that he would lose another one of his darling daughters before she got to bring her light to the world. Fear that Charity, his wonderful wife, would bear the grief of losing two children. He cried, afraid of what lied ahead.

When Caroline turned two, a month older than Frances ever got to be, he cried once more.

~

The rain beyond the tent walls was violent, sharp gusts of wind propelling the torment on the striped canvas. The weather was quite the metaphor for the turmoil that ravaged Phillip Carlyle's thoughts.  
The former playwright bit his lip, dragging his teeth over the cracked skin. The red of his coat, which was hung on a rod, caught his eye before the crash of thunder overhead sent his eyes darting to the sky. 

The show must go on, he told himself. A little thunder never hurt anybody.

“Carlyle, you in there?” The sound of P. T. Barnum's rich baritone sent him to his feet in a second. 

“Yeah, come on in,” Phillip grabbed a newspaper from a nearby table, pretending to have been reading.

Barnum greeted him with a warm smile. “I was wondering if I could do the show tonight.” He asked, his voice laced with the barest hint of hesitance.

Phillip tried to keep the relief off his face, with little success. 

“Of course, the audience will love to see you,” Phillip grabbed the red ringmasters coat from the rod from which it hung and handed it P. T.

“Why don't you go find Anne, performing in this storm might be quite stressful,” Barnum's lips quirked into a knowing smirk, leaving Phillip trying not to flush.

Of course, Barnum had to know about his fear of storms. Of course.

“Right. I'll see you after the show?” 

Barnum hummed in acknowledgment, securing the top hat on his chestnut hair.

~

Phineas watched Phillip leave, checking that no one else was approaching, before pulling out the small wooden box and setting on a table, next to the brown coat he had came in wearing.

He wasn't quite sure why he brought the box here, he could just as easily had gone home after the show and pick it up then, but in the end, both had the same end result, it didn't really matter which way he chose to get there.

~

The show passed like a breeze, no complications or unexpected events. The audience was as enthusiastic as ever, if not more, as tonight P. T. was back to perform. They adored Phillip and he was an excellent ringmaster, but something about P. T. shifted the aura slightly.

Phineas smiled at guests as they left, thanking them for coming. Soon the tent was empty, with the exception of the circus members themselves. Phineas congratulated each of them for the show, before hurrying back to his room.

He shrugged the coat off his shoulders and changed quickly. Brown replaced red as he buttoned up the front of his jacket, before grabbing the box and scurrying from the tent.

The rain had slowed to a sweet spring shower and the bright flashes of lightning stopped, turning the town into a misty haze of calm after a storm.

The streets were soggy and the mud clung to his shoes and the hem of his pants where it had splashed. It was dark, the daytime had fed into evening, and with storm clouds above, it was practically night. 

The alley through which Phineas walked was deserted, leaving him to his thoughts.

He had planned to take the box to Frances' grave and bury it, ridding himself and Charity of the weight that the item carried on their conscious'. 

Phineas was minutes from the cemetery when the back of his coat, the collar around his neck, was grabbed and he was thrown to the ground.

“What the-” 

A mud-ridden boot struck his jaw, whipping his neck back. Phineas groaned and spat, trying to rid his mouth of the taste of dirt, to no avail.

“Empty ya pockets. Now.”

Phin squinted at the man looming above him. The glint of a dagger caught the reflection of a lamp nearby and Phineas swallowed the growing lump in his throat.

“Look, I don't have any money.” P. T. dug his hands into his pockets, revealing their emptiness.

The man, who couldn't be any older than 20, was joined by a woman, maybe a few years older than him.

The man shook his head quickly at the woman, still pointing the knife at Phineas. 

“C'est quoi ça?” French. Phineas raised a brow, his dazed brown eyes following the direction that the woman's bony finger pointed to, his gaze finally coming to rest upon the small wooden box. He must have dropped it when he fell.

The body of the box was face down in the mud, the lid lying a few inches away. The blanket was nowhere to be seen.

In quick strides, the woman stepped around Phineas and grabbed the box. The tattered cloth clung to the box with mud as glue, but it could only hold on so long. The woman grabbed the cloth and pocketed it, before tossing the box aside.

“Il a rien, allons-y. Les épater.”

The man nodded, and sent a punch to Phineas' jaw. The last thing he tasted before he blacked out was dirt and the metallic taste of blood.

~

If P. T.'s step had lost its usual bounce and charm, well, no one noticed.

And, if P. T. insisted that Phillip walk home with him for dinner with Charity and the girls, well, Phillip didn't mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry this chapter took so long to get out, I had a huge writer's block, and classes had started up again.
> 
> For the next chapter, I have two plots that I can go with, first being an angst/hurt/comfort and the second being even angstier. I'm not sure which to go with, so let me know what you would like to see!
> 
> Also, sorry for my bad French! I've been learning it my entire life and I still suck
> 
> Translations:  
> C'est quoi ca? - What's that?  
> Il a rien, allons-y. Les epater." - He has nothing, let's go. Knock him dead.


	6. Sacrifice and Stab wounds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy heck it's finally done! wow! so sorry this took so long to get out, this chapter is actually the longest thing i have ever written. i was going to write a bunch more but i really wanted to get this chapter published. i might do a little sequel story. anyways, hope you enjoy!

“Look, P. T., I really don't think that's a good idea.”

Phillip glared stubbornly at the man beside him. The former ringmaster had his arms crossed, a look of disdain on his face.

“Come on, Phil! Live a little!” P. T. continued walking down the sidewalk, forcing Phillip to jog slightly to catch up.

“It's dangerous,” He countered.

“That's the fun part! The element of suspense,” P. T. turned to face him, stopping abruptly, “The 'will he make it out?'. It all adds to the appeal of the show.”

“P. T., I am not risking anybody's lives for some new act you read about.”

“Oh, come on-”

A child's scream cut him off.

P. T. whirled around, looking in the direction of the cry.

Phillip quickly ran into step next to him.

“I think it came from the alley. Come on.” P. T. motioned for Phillip to follow, darting around a corner.

~

Phineas felt his heart pounding in his chest.

The scream had come from a girl, about eight years old. She had splashes of white on her tan skin, the patches covering her face, arms, and legs.

Next to her was a boy, a few years her senior. 

In front of them stood a group of men, covered in soot and chewing toothpicks. A leader stood in front, cowering over the children.

The man caught one glance of the girl's patterned skin and spat at her feet, causing her and the boy to recoil in shock. Phineas' blood boiled. Phillip held him back.

“Yer just one of 'em freaks, ain't ya?” He stepped forward tantalizingly. “Well, get rid of 'em young, before they can spread their filth.”

Phineas' jaw clenched, and he sent Phillip a pleading glance. 

“We need the element of surprise. We're outnumbered, Barnum”

Phin turned his head back to the scene and his stomach dropped.

The man had a knife.

The metal blade was being twirled in the man's mangy fingers. The girl had latched on the boy- Phineas assumed it was her brother. The boy pushed her behind him protectively, though his wide eyes brimmed with unshed tears, betraying his strong stance.

“Never bring a knife to a fistfight.” The boy muttered, his words laced with venom.

One of the man's goonies scoffed, and the main man merely chuckled. It was a terrible sound, one that made Phin's skin crawl.

He could feel Phillip stiffen beside him, a slight tensing of the shoulders, but that was enough to set off alarms in Phin's head. 

The man had shifted, his posture changing. His legs braced and his chest was pushed forward. Phineas had been in enough fights to know that he was going to attack. 

Before Phineas even registered what he was really getting himself into, he was rushing forward. His legs carried him across the mud, it was a miracle that he didn't slip. 

“Phillip, grab the kids!” He yelled over his shoulder, praying that Phillip had followed him.

As if in slow motion, Phineas leapt in front of the blade. He staggered slightly, but managed to land on his feet.

Phineas felt strange. Something wasn't right.

He glanced down, and his breath hitched.

Protruding from his abdomen was the knife, a flower of blood blossoming onto his shirt.

Phineas was frozen. The blood in his veins- the life that was seeping from him- had turned to ice. His breath was caught in his throat, afraid that any movement would send him spiraling into pain.

He was in shock, he could tell that much. 

Suddenly the knife was twisted and pulled out, drawing the scream that had built in Phin's throat with it. He dropped to his knees, the action pulling another cry from his lips. His hand had instinctively pressed against his wound, the other pushed against the mud-laden ground in a feeble attempt to keep himself upright.

He could hear someone calling his name, distantly. The panicked voice was muffled behind the cotton in his ears, the blood loss coupled with the lack of oxygen from his shallow breaths leaving him unable to make out any words.

A hand grasped his shoulder, pulling to turn him around. The contact was warm and familiar, and Phin leaned into the touch. The shift caused his hand, slick with mud, to slip and sent his body crumpling on the ground. 

Morbidly, Phineas realized that this was the second time this week that he would fall unconscious on the ground, beaten. Although, this time, Phineas wasn't sure if he'd ever wake up. He wasn't sure he wanted to.

~

Phillip grabbed the girl and pushed her brother aside, rushing them both a safe distance away. 

“Stay here, it'll be alright.” He reassured them, offering a small smile.

A scream cut through the air; the sound echoing along the damp alley walls. It was guttural, and it tore from the person's throat with vengeance. Phillip's breath caught, and cold fear filled his stomach. His heart pounded as he whirled around, just in time to see P. T. drop to his knees, another cry breaking the musky silence. 

The leader of the pack held a blade that dripped with blood. P. T.'s blood. 

Phillip wanted to throw up.

Phillip watched in horror as the men laughed, a few of them spitting at the ringmaster's crumpled form. With a final sneer, the leader motioned for them to follow, leaving P. T. in the mud.

Finally, Phillip regained his senses and rushed forward. He fell to his knees, sliding to his friend's side. 

“Barnum? Come on, come on-” Phillip ignored the way his voice broke. “Don't do this.”

Phillip grabbed P. T.'s shoulder, ignoring the searing sense of dread that filled his stomach. Suddenly, P. T.'s hand slipped, sending him sprawling to the mud. 

Phillip bit his lip and carefully turned P. T. onto his back. His stomach lurched at the sight of the blood staining his friend's shirt, a stark contrast against P. T.'s pallid skin.

Out of the corner of his eye, Phillip caught a glance of the children, the ones P. T. had sacrificed himself for. The girl looked on the verge of throwing up, her brother not fairing much better.

“Go to the circus, about a block away. Tell them P. T.'s been hurt.” Phillip spoke softly yet urgently to the children, both of them trembling slightly.

The girl nodded, her face suddenly hardening in determination. She grabbed her brother's hand and ran off. Phillip prayed they'd be fast. P. T. didn't have much time left.

~

Anne drummed the pads of her fingers nervously. Phillip and Barnum were late. 

It had only been fifteen minutes since their rehearsal was set to start, but each minute increased the chance of them never showing up. Each minute increased the chance of a protester finally doing something incomprehensibly horrible to the pair of ringmasters.

Since the beginning of the circus, Anne had always known that there would be people who wanted to see them gone. It was an unavoidable side effect of displaying her and the other oddities.

Even before the fire, there was a part of Anne that would always be afraid. Afraid for herself, for W. D., for Phillip, and, eventually, afraid for Barnum. 

The sound of the footsteps and the tent flaps opening drove Anne from her reverie. She quickly made her way to the front, her heart hammering. 

She saw two people, and she began to smile in relief. That relief was quickly subdued.

“You're not Phillip. Or Barnum” She raised an eyebrow at the two children as they caught their breath.

“I'm Jacque, this is Janine. Your friend,” he paused, “Phillip?”

Anne nodded.

“Phillip sent us. He said to tell you that P. T. was hurt.” Jacque looked pale and the young girl, Janine, trembled, her eyes red with tears.

Anne's stomach dropped and she swallowed the lump in her throat. 

“How bad? What happened?” Anne's words tumbled quickly from her lips, and it took the kids a few seconds to understand.

“He was- Il était-” Jacque's brow furrowed. He gestured a stabbing motion and Anne's breath caught.

“He was stabbed?” 

“Yes! And Phillip told us to come here and to get a doctor.” Jacque glanced at his sister, concerned. “Janine, es-tu correcte?”

“There was so much blood. The man on the ground looked so white.” The girl looked up at Anne. “You must help him.”

The girl's small fingers wrapped around Anne's calloused palms and pulled her from the tent, leading her to the small building that rested down a street near the docks.

~

Phillip rested his forehead against his and P. T.'s bloody hands. He felt drained; exhaustion had burrowed deep into his very being, each bone heavy with fear and vast concern.

He presumed that P. T. had passed into unconsciousness because of the pain; surely the man hadn't yet lost so much blood as to be rendered asleep?

His heart was pounding in his chest, each beat counting the seconds as Phillip awaited the rescue that would save his friend. 

Phillip did his best to ease P. T.'s discomfort in the wait till the children returned, hopefully with a doctor. He placed his coat under his friend's head, protecting the man's chestnut hair from the dirty ground.

It felt like hours before the sound of footsteps approached. Phillip was numb as they pulled him from P. T., carrying the injured man to what Phillip hoped to be a respite.

A hand came to rest on his shoulder, gentle and comforting.

Anne.

Phillip turned to her, her brown eyes red-rimmed and her gaze concerned.

Phillip broke.

~

Charity Barnum was one of the strongest women Phillip knew. When P. T. left her to go on tour, she raised their two daughters with the grace of an angel and held her ground when she found out about the Jenny Lind scandal.

As she gripped the unresponsive hand of her comatose husband, Phillip could see her composure slipping away. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her golden hair fell loose across her shoulders, and her chest rose and fell with a sporadic rhythm, heaving with suppressed sobs.

It took Phillip almost four hours to convince Charity to go home, rest, and be with her daughters, and that he'd inform her if anything happened.

On the cot, P. T.'s skin was ashen and yellowed, his eyes sunken, darkened by purple bruises. His brown curls were in tangles against the pillows. Hidden away from prying eyes, under white sheets, were bandages, wrapped around his torso and up his chest.

Earlier that day, a doctor had asked Charity about using an experimental anesthesia on P. T.. He had gone over the major risks (“In certain circumstances, it can cause heart problems, pulmonary embolism and, in extreme cases, death,”) and the minor risks (“but seeing as Mr. Barnum is perfectly healthy, the worst case scenario is most likely postoperative nausea, vomiting, and drowsiness”).

Charity was reluctant. The doctor had assured both her and Phillip that once the anesthesia had worn off after the surgery, P. T. would wake up minutes later and regain his senses over the next few hours.

Charity had conceited after the doctor said that it would help thousands of lives if the anesthesia proved extremely successful.

“It's what Phin would want.” She had told Phillip.

Phillip had agreed, joking that P. T. would love the press of being the first patient to use the anesthetic.

As Phillip watched P. T. sleep on the hospital cot, he regretted ever letting the doctor use his friend as a guinea pig.

It had been an entire day since the surgery and P. T. had yet to show any signs of waking up. 

Phillip was pulled from his reverie by the sound of footsteps.

A nurse; brown-haired, young, petite frame, came to run a routine check on P. T., quietly moving around the room, checking his vitals and changing his bandages (Phillip had to look away for that part).

The nurse brushed P. T.'s bangs from his forehead, checking his temperature. As she pulled her hand away, satisfied with the warmth that was returning to his skin, she frowned.

“What's wrong?” Phillip asked, his voice crackling from not being used.

“Did Mr. Barnum hit his head when he was attacked?” The nurse prodded at P. T.'s hair, her eyes narrowed.

“No, no, I don't think so. I caught him.” Phillip swallowed. Head wounds could have devastating effects. 

“What's wrong?” He repeated.

“I'll have Doctor Sweets look at it,” She stated, not looking at Phillip, “But I believe that Mr. Barnum has recently sustained a blow to the head, enough to cause a minor concussion. We have no record of Mr. Barnum ever coming here to report a head injury.”

Phillip's brow furrowed. 

“What are you saying?” He pushed down the feeling of guilt.

“I'm saying,” The nurse sighed, “That Mr. Barnum did not deem it necessary to seek medical attention for a significant head wound. And, on the left leg, there is a large cut, approximately 3 inches in length. It's a miracle that the wound did not get infected.”

Phillip stared at the figure lying unconscious in the bed, scars and wounds covered by an unassuming white sheet. 

It made him feel sick.

The nurse looked down on P. T. sympathetically.

“I presume these two wounds; the head trauma and the cut on his leg, happened during the same incident, judging by how far along the healing process they both are. I'd say around a month or so ago.”

“The trapeze,” Phillip whispered to himself, “Oh my God, the trapeze accident.”

The nurse looked up at him questioningly, but said nothing.

Phillip knew P. T. had gotten hurt when Anne's trapeze had snapped, but in the fear of making sure Anne was alright, Phillip had forgotten completely about Barnum. 

For that, for the little it's worth, he was ashamed.

Even after Anne was seen by a doctor and her arm and been put in a splint, Phillip did not question whether P. T. had gone for help. 

“Are there any other injuries? Ones that haven't been accounted for?” Phillip wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer.

The nurse glanced down at her pad of paper, her eyes scanning the words.

“You said that there wasn't any sort of altercation or fight before Mr. Barnum was stabbed, correct?”

Phillip nodded.

“Well, along the ribs and torso, we found major bruising. Bruising one might get from being kicked or hit in a fight.”

Phillip thought back to when P. T. had come in on Wednesday, three days ago, with a bruise on his brow bone. Those wounds would also explain P. T.'s reluctance to be more active in rehearsal. 

As his gaze rested on P. T., his expression peaceful while in the clutches of unconsciousness, Phillip silently promised to have a long discussion with the ringmaster when he woke up.

If he woke up.

~ 

It had been four days, six hours, and thirty-seven minutes since Caroline Barnum's father had been brought to the hospital with a stab wound.

It had been four days, five hours, and fifty-three minutes since Caroline Barnum's father had been administered an experimental anesthesia that had put his body in a coma.

It had been three days, twenty-three hours, and forty-eight minutes since Caroline Barnum's father should have officially passed all of the anesthesia through his system.

It had been two days, eight hours, and twenty-three minutes since Caroline Barnum's father had been revealed to have multiple untreated wounds.

It had been sixteen seconds since Caroline Barnum's father woke up.

~

Caroline curled into the chair, days of restlessness taking their toll. On the brink of sleep, her eyes began to drift closed.

Her mother had gone to fetch dinner and Helen was at home, hopefully resting.

That left her alone at comatose father's bedside.

She startled awake at the sound of a small groan. Her eyes were blown wide, a feeling of hopefulness blossoming in her chest like a flower.

“Daddy?” She crept on light feet to her father's side. “Daddy? Can you hear me?”

Caroline gripped her father's hand in her own, ignoring the tremble in her voice. His eyes shifted under closed lids, another groan slipping past chapped lips.

“Can you squeeze my hand for me? Please?” Caroline bit her lip.

A slight pressure against her fingers brought tears to her eyes. 

“Oh, thank you! Thank you, daddy.” She pressed a kiss to his hand before placing it back on the bed. “I'm going to go find a doctor, okay? I'll be right back.”

~

Phineas was cold. And hot. And in a lot of pain.

His bones burned like fire, yet his blood was as chilled as ice.

He couldn't hear or feel anything past the pain.

He was paralyzed, trapped in his own body, a prisoner of his mind.

That terrified him more than any wound ever would.

He tried to scream, but the cotton in his mouth shielded his voice from ever being heard. He tried to run, but the hands in the darkness held him down. He tried to breathe, but the weight in his chest was crippling.

He tried to survive, but he let go.

~ 

Caroline stifled a sob in the sleeve of her wool cardigan. 

A comforting arm wrapped around her shoulders, the familiar weight belonging to one Phillip Carlyle. She leaned into the touch, resting her cheek against his sleeve. 

The doctors pumped her father's chest in an attempt to bring the life back into him.

~

P. T. wiggled his toes, then his fingers. Strange. 

He felt uncomfortably numb, not the good, forget-your-miseries kind of numb that you got from a good bottle of scotch.

P. T. took a deep breath and let the numbness wash over him.

~

Phillip startled awake at the sound of a quiet groan. Scrambling from his chair, Phillip stood at P. T.'s bedside.

“You with me, P. T.?” Phillip asked the still form on the bed.

Phillip smiled as brown eyes stared into his blues.

“Welcome back.”

P. T.'s lips twitched up.

In the swell of relief, Phillip reached forward and pulled his friend into his arms. 

The slight puff of breath against his neck reassured Phillip that P. T. was alive and that he would get better.

If Phillip noticed the tears dripping down P. T.'s cheeks, he did nothing but hold his friend tighter.

And, if it took days, weeks or even months for P. T. to fully heal, Phillip knew that P. T. would always have his family by his side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> Il etait: He was  
> Es-tu correcte?: Are you okay?
> 
> hope you guys enjoyed this chapter! i can't believe it's over!


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